This Old House
by AquilaKate
Summary: Amelia moves out, on, and up. She fixes a house and a dog on the way. Owen is along for the ride.
"It's like a castle."

Owen tilts his head, letting his jaw hang open for a quick gulp of air before he recovers. "In size and…age, yes. It's a castle. But otherwise, it's a little…"

Uncertain, he gestures vaguely towards the chunk of dusty plaster that's dominating most of the available space on the foyer floor, surrounded by a halo of its crumbled self. Then at the hole in the ceiling where it fell from.

Amelia waves him off, shiny with excitement and still grinning, unfazed. "Surface damage. A flesh wound!"

"A flesh wound?" He aims a gentle kick at a bent nail sticking out of the floor boards. "Is that what you're going to be telling me when I'm pulling one of these out of your foot in the ER?"

"Like I would go to the ER for a nail in my foot," she scoffs.

Rolling his eyes, he pries the nail up with the sole of his boot. The floorboard it was stuck in comes up with it.

"Don't break my house," Amelia complains.

He falters. "This…this is _your_ house? As in, you bought this house. _This_ house?"

"Mhmm," she confirms, wandering into the next room and examining her kingdom in awe. "Yes, this is _my_ house. I bought this house. Yes, _this_ house. It was a steal, they practically paid me to take it. Can you believe that?"

"Well, yes. I can. In fact, I'm a little surprised they didn't _actually_ pay you to take it. Amelia…this place, it needs a lot of work."

She's walking away from him now, having moved on to circling the kitchen, walking her fingers across the smooth wood of the upper cabinets. One of them is on the floor, leaned against the wall instead of mounted on it, the spot where it was hanging marked by a rectangle of paint that's as vibrant as the rest of the wall was before years of wear, tear, and fading. It doesn't bode well for the structural stability of the others.

"Aren't you the one who's always telling me to take a break and spend less time at the hospital? Find a hobby or some other self-care crap like that?"

"Yeah," he admits, wide-eyed. "But to be honest, I never thought you'd actually do it."

Arms thrown up to either side of her head, she spins slowly, presenting the kitchen for his consideration. "Well, here it is!"

Breathing deeply, he crosses the threshold into the kitchen, careful to avoid the areas where the tile has broken into uneven shards. Gently, he wraps his hands around her shoulders, urging her to stop turning. "Amelia."

She smiles.

"I know it's a crappy house, Owen. I'm not delusional."

"Oh, thank god."

He winds his arms around her back and pulls her into his chest, resting his head on hers. "So you didn't really buy this death trap?"

"I didn't say that." Amelia drops her forehead to his shoulder. "Still my death trap. I want to make it less crappy."

And then he's sighing but he's smiling too, rubbing at the bridge between his eyes to dislodge either a headache or some side effect from the rush of adrenaline that comes whenever he's reminded of how fond he is of her.

"So you got a good deal, huh?" he asks finally.

"Great deal," she stresses. "One easy payment, barely put a dent in my savings-"

They're interrupted by the sound of something large and metallic-sounding hitting a hard surface (more than likely, the floor) and a rush of skittering scratches directly above them.

Amelia blinks, pursing her lips and taking deep breaths through her nose.

"Aaand that thing, whatever it is, seems to be included," she says cheerfully.

* * *

It is a she and she is a dog.

Not a rabid dog, Amelia points out. Because there's no hydrophobia, judging by the two bottles of water she laps up in a gas station parking lot on the way to the vet.

"It could still have fleas," Owen argues.

Amelia snorts. "You live in the woods, so could you.

* * *

"So the dog-"

"Rita."

"…so, Rita. She was just…in the house when you bought it? Hanging out?"

"Chillin' like a villain," Amelia confirms. She tilts her head and studies her sock drawer for a second, before yanking it from the dresser and emptying it over her suitcase. Maggie frowns.

A wad of balled up pantyhose hits the floor and unfurls until it stops against Karev's foot. "The last owner probably died in that place," he scowls. "And Cujo ate him."

"It's a girl," Maggie corrects.

"Cujette."

Amelia manages to force the zipper three quarters of the way around her suitcase before calling it a lost cause and hefting it off the bed. "Okay, does anyone want to take a break from picking on a blind, half-starved dog and help me take this stuff downstairs?"

It's not much. Her rolling suitcase and a box each for Maggie and Karev. Years of floating from someone else's home to other (different) people's homes have left her very mobile. Fluid, even.

She sidesteps into the doorway and nearly slams into Meredith, who's appeared out of nowhere.

"Oh," Meredith says, stunned. "You packed."

"I packed."

"She packed," Alex grunts. "Now get out of the way, I got the box with all those forty pound neuro texts."

They turn to let him through but none of them follow, even when they hear a concerning thud and a cry of pain.

Meredith rests against the doorway and urges her to drop the suitcase and let it lean against the dresser. "Amelia," she sighs. "You can't move into that house. There are actual, literal wild animals roaming through it."

"It was a dog!" she groans. "Why is everyone so strung out about the dog? And she's not roaming through the house, she's playing with your kids in the kitchen. If you're so concerned about the dog, shouldn't you have, oh I don't know, not left her to babysit?"

"Yeah, that's not the best idea," Maggie agrees quietly, shrinking in on herself to slip past them. "I'll go check on the kids…and Rita."

Then they're in a room alone, which never goes well for them, so Amelia feints left and escapes into the hall. Meredith follows sedately, clearly wanting to catch up but making no effort to do so.

"Is everything okay with you and Owen?"

"Oh god," Amelia groans. "Meredith, stop."

"Because even if it isn't, that doesn't mean you're being kicked out."

"FYI, anything going on between me and Owen? So not a good reason to throw me out." Her suitcase thunks loudly on the stairs, which probably isn't good for the hardwood, but it's too heavy to lift so all she can do is wince and drag it behind her. Meredith rolls her eyes. "Besides, I'm trying this new thing where I choose to move _before_ someone makes me."

There's shrieking in the kitchen and they perk up to listen until they both determine that it's happy shrieking and no cause for alarm.

They stumble back as a grey mass of fur and drool squeezes between them and sprints to knock the coffee table on its side and run headlong into the couch.

Meredith sighs. "Does this house even have running water?"

Whistling for Rita, Amelia drops to one knee and opens her arms, waiting to be head butted in the chest. Rita's nose finds her cheek and her tongue follows after.

"If I wanted a second opinion, Mer…" She pauses to press a kiss to the side of Rita's snout. "I'd page you for a consult."

* * *

"You weren't planning on using your sledgehammer any time soon, right?"

Because it's already in her car.

"At least it wasn't my shoes this time," Meredith grumbles.

* * *

At first, it's just a lot of wrecking things. _It's kind of frickin' awesome._

Amelia's words.

"I never took you for a home improvement junkie."

Owen's perched on a overturned bucket a safe distance away, wearing safety goggles and sipping ginger ale from a mug he brought with him (because Amelia only has three and two are consistently dirty…probably because she doesn't have a dishwasher).

"Nope!" She pops the 'p' sound and hefts her sledgehammer over her shoulder. "Just a plain, old, run-of-the-mill, regular junkie."

He knows better than to acknowledge that.

"I mean, I am all precision, all the time, and I love it! I do!" Amelia stresses. "It's just nice to go all out sometimes. Hit things, in _not_ just the exact right spot. As hard as you want!"

She swings the sledgehammer into a rung of the old, rotted railing, and everything above it collapses in on itself, raining splinters and paint chips and bigger chunks of wood down on her head.

Owen's on his feet in an instant, but she waves him off, brushing shrapnel out of her hair.

"We're getting you a hard hat." Scrubbing his hands over his face, he sinks back onto the bucket and sighs. "Maybe a _little_ bit of precision next time. Just a little."

She takes a whack at the remaining railing. This time, it caves away from her and he can watch her face as it falls.

It's…maniacal isn't the right word. At least, he hopes it isn't.

Rita can't even see what's happening and she's still whining, resting her head on his shoe.

"I know, lady," he sympathizes. "You'll learn to love it."

* * *

She sleeps there.

It's unfinished, but she sleeps there.

Probably, there are particles in the air that aren't one hundred percent safe to breathe in deeply. But this is her home, _her_ castle, and she's ready to live there. _Really_ live there.

It works. She's likes to think that outside of her OR, she's pretty low maintenance. And Owen was in the army. So the air mattress is a cake walk.

"You can't make fun of me for living in the trailer anymore."

Amelia smiles, but doesn't roll over. "Do you have a problem with my temporary bedroom?"

They're set up on the ground floor, in a room off the front one that will not be her permanent bedroom but since neither one of them trusts the staircase enough to take it repeatedly, it will have to do for now.

The mattress shifts from movement behind her, presumably from Owen sitting up and looking around.

"It's a little unfurnished."

The mattress is in the corner, made up with all the pillows and blankets that she had on her bed at Meredith's, and there's a table lamp she's kept with her since her college dorm room sitting on the window sill. Her kitchen, in its entirety, consists of all the assorted tableware she's accumulated over the years stacked on top of the mini fridge that Owen got her as a housewarming gift.

"Probably because I don't have any furniture," she guesses. "Because I'm a nomad."

She feels Owen nod against the back of her neck. "That would do it."

"You know, you're not a nomad anymore."

She shrugs as best as she can while laying on her side and considers that.

"Where's Rita?"

The pile of laundry in the corner shakes for a second, and Rita's head pops out, focused on the wrong corner now that they're quiet and she can't use their voices to guide her.

"You know this is technically her house," Amelia snorts. "She's been here longer than I have. I moved in with her."

"This is your house." His tone is stern, but she can feel him laughing against her shoulder. "You're making it your house."

* * *

It takes a little while, but eventually she gets it to the point where it's safe enough for the kids to visit.

Zola stands close to her, leaning against her leg, while she bounces Ellis on her opposite hip and holds tight to Bailey's hand. They haven't even made it inside yet, they're standing in the yard looking up at the whole house, when Amelia realizes she can't wait anymore and stops to get their opinions, rocking on the balls of her feet.

"Pretty cool, huh?"

"Woah," Zola breathes. "It's like a castle!"

Amelia grins.

* * *

Turns out, after you rip everything out of a house, you have to put something back in. There's a lot of shopping that needs to be done, and though Amelia has never turned up her nose at _conventional_ shopping, all of a sudden she's spending hours in stores that smell like sawdust and sweat, trying to match the cabinet pulls to the countertops and hating almost every second of it.

"No one is making you do this," Owen chuckles.

What's great about Owen is that he knows this is not _his_ project, and while he's happy to help with whatever she asks him to, he's also content to push the cart behind her and not offer an opinion that she doesn't really want to have to consider.

"So what?" she asks, squinting at two slightly different tiles that she's holding flush together. "I live in a house with no cabinets or countertops?"

He gives her a look because she _is_ currently living in a house with no cabinets or countertops or a number of other essentials.

"Permanently," she amends.

"It's your house, Amelia. Just pick what you like. Who cares if it matches? Because I know you don't."

She considers that.

"Screw it," she says, dumping the tiles back where they came from. "Wooden countertops. Black. And what do they call it when they put those little tiles on the wall?"

Hunt falters because this isn't his area of expertise either. A nearby sales associate in a garish vest overhears and sighs at them.

"A backsplash," she says helpfully.

"Backsplash!"

Saluting the salesperson, Amelia waves for Owen to follow and sets her sights on some light fixtures. "A grey backsplash. Grey and black."

"..like an MRI image?"

"Not… _un_ like an MRI image."

* * *

"I know, I know, most people would take the whole thing out and put a new one in. But I mean, wood is wood right? I figure I can sand it down and it'll be good as new. Better than new because it'll have that aged look going for it."

"Amelia? Are the hardwood floors a metaphor for something?"

She frowns. "No…they're just regular old floors."

"Then maybe this is a conversation for another occasion?"

"Right."

Abashed, she shuffles her feet and looks down at the podium, flipping her latest chip from finger to finger. "I'm happy. I guess that's what I'm trying to say."

From the back of the room, Richard rolls his eyes. And smiles.

* * *

Rita has a brain tumor.

It turns out that the blindness is a symptom not the condition itself. The tumor is pressing on her optic nerve.

Amelia should have seen it.

"You are not a veterinarian," Maggie says sternly. (As sternly as Maggie can say things.)

Maggie is helping her paint. Probably Maggie doesn't really want to help her paint, but she's too nice to say so and that's not Amelia's fault so she doesn't feel bad asking her anyway.

Rolling her eyes, Amelia turns back to the wall and stands on her toes to reach the roller to the very top. "I'm a brain surgeon. That's better than a veterinarian."

"Not for dogs."

Meredith is there too. Meredith is _not_ helping her paint.

But she's there, so that's something.

"What are the odds that you of all people would buy a house that comes with a brain tumor?"

"I didn't," she scowls. "I bought a house that came with a dog. The dog came with a brain tumor. And that gutless med school flunk-out won't operate on it."

From her spot on the drop cloth covered floor, Meredith tips her drink at her and asks, "Is it because you called him a gutless med school flunk-out to his face? Because that sounds like something you would do."

"Meredith," Maggie scolds.

"Noooo. It's because he's a wimp, and he thinks that I'll sue him if he kills my dog. Am I doing this wrong?"

When she steps back it looks like patches of the paint are darker than others. Maybe she was inadvertently doubling up on coats?

Frowning, Maggie joins her, tilting her head when Amelia does to try to get the same angle. "I don't think so. I think the lighter color is just what it looks like when it's dry."

"Oh."

 _Did it look like that in the store?_

Hesitantly, she looks at Maggie and takes a subtle step to the side.

"I have bad news."

"No," Maggie says, wide-eyed. " _No_ …"

Amelia winces. "Fraid so."

"I am _not_ helping you paint this again."

She does.

* * *

"She's a very floppy dog."

Amelia winces and subtly glances at the nearly empty tequila bottle, trying to remember how full it was when Meredith brought it. "She's a mastiff…or part mastiff. They all look like that."

"Veeeeery floppy," Meredith sings, smooshing Rita's face up and then back down. "Flooooooppy, floppy, floppy."

"Get out of my house."

* * *

Owen isn't allowed in the attic. Which makes Owen _really_ want to go in the attic.

"I didn't ask to see the attic," he points out. "You volunteered the information that it was off limits on your own, out of the blue."

Amelia's just coming off a nine hour surgery, reclined on the couch in the attendings' lounge with her hands stacked over her eyes. Briefly, she lifts them to hover a few centimeters over her forehead so she can give him a look, before dropping them again, blocking out the light.

On the other couch, Torres is finishing off a tub of yogurt, looking back and forth between them in amusement.

"Those two neuro patients that elected not to take the surgical path," she starts, pausing to suck her spoon clean before pointing it at Amelia. "Have we heard from them lately? Are they trapped up there?"

"Leave her alone," Arizona scolds. "A person's office is private. Especially for someone as…work oriented as Amelia is."

"Thank you!"

She sacrifices one hand to be held out so Arizona can fist bump it. Arizona obliges, then leans forward and lowers her voice.

"And if we aren't nice, she won't let Sofia play in that big yard anymore."

"I heard that!"

Amelia wags a blind finger in their general direction. "I wouldn't do that to Sofia! You, I might ban…"

Suddenly, Callie sits up too fast and squints at her, suspicious.

"There are brains in jars up there, aren't there? And like, spinal cords hanging from the ceiling…"

There's no answer, and without instant negation, that hangs uncomfortably in the air. A little too possible. Arizona leans over and angles her head to see Amelia's face.

"She's asleep!" she says brightly, hand on her heart. "That's why she didn't say…she's asleep!"

Smiling, Owen rolls his chair over to the couch and gently moves Amelia's hands to her chest. As he's reaching to retrieve the blanket from the back of the couch, a hand catches his arm, and he jumps.

"Owen?"

He swallows. "Yes, Amelia?"

"Stay out of my attic."

* * *

"Hold the fixture flush with the ceiling!"

"What?"

"Is it flush?"

"What?"

"Owen, is the fixture flush with the ceiling?"

"What?!"

Sighing, Amelia pulls her new overhead lighting up through the whole in the floor. On her stomach, she peers over the edge into the kitchen.

Owen, standing on the only chair in the house, throws his arms up in frustration.

"What?"

* * *

"It took you half an hour to pick a desk, but that's how you pick a mattress?"

Amelia nods. "Seems like it."

Rolling his eyes, Owen catches her upper arm and pulls her over to the mattress she'd just jabbed a finger at and declared, 'that one.'

"Here," he orders. "Lay down. Try it out."

She gives him a look but does what he says, awkwardly bouncing on the edge for a second before stretching out on her side, arms curled under her. "Okay great." She pushes herself up on her elbow and starts to swing her legs over to get up. "This is the one."

"Stop."

Owen sinks down next to her and throws an arm over her waist, keeping her in place.

For a second, they lay there and bask in the awkward feeling of being stared at by the other shoppers (because even in a furniture store, this is a little too intimate for public consumption) until Owen digs a finger into her side and she shoves a knuckle between her teeth to keep from shrieking in laughter.

"So what am I looking for here? I usually settle for not-a-couch."

"That's up to you," he says, a little too close to her ear. It does something weird to her spine and she squirms on this nice, new store mattress. "Soft but not too soft. Firm, springy, whatever floats your boat."

Amelia groans. "I bet my air mattress floats."

Owen laughs. "You're done with this, aren't you?"

"Like an hour ago."

"Okay," he agrees, smiling. "This one, then. What's next?"

* * *

They go to the pet store to get Rita a bed and a toy to call her very own because Owen is convinced that the dog is targeting him- only taking and chewing and/or drooling on things that belong to him. It's probably true. She likes Amelia better. So they buy an anatomically close-to-correct femur made out of squeaky rubber and send a picture to Torres on the way to the house.

When they go to give it to Rita, she's seizing on the kitchen floor.

* * *

There's drool on her sheets. And on the stack of case files she keeps next to the bed.

The previously established rules regarding clawed animals on the easily punctured air mattress go out the window. Rita lays with her (and sometimes Owen) in bed and drools all over her things.

Somehow, the pillow that Owen uses when he stays over gets chewed. Amelia cops to it.

* * *

The phrase 'home alone' never really made sense to her before this. When she lives with someone else, she's 'by herself until someone else gets there' and when she lives alone, however briefly, she's just 'home'.

But here, in her castle, it feels like there's a lot of empty space. Sometimes, she's home alone.

It takes some getting used to.

She does laps in the house. Not consciously, she just starts walking and doesn't stop. Living room, kitchen, foyer, spare room. Up the stairs. Wander into each bedroom, flip on the lights, take a look around. Back down the stairs.

Not the attic because Rita likes to follow and she has some trouble with the narrow attic stairs.

There's a room off of hers. It's a little too small to be a bedroom, and she considered using it for an office before deciding to convert the entire attic for that purpose. (Putting the office further from where she sleeps is probably healthier. And the 'top of the house' slash 'brain' symbolism is too good to pass up.) When she's in a particular kind of mood, she pauses there during her laps.

It's wrong. She knows it's wrong but…she stands at the window with her back to the rest of the room and let's herself picture the room looking very different. Sometimes, she pictures it growing with her son. Superhero sheets and glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.

But mostly she pictures a crib in the corner.

She never got to watch her baby sleep (obsessively, like new parents do), but she pictures him waking up. Thinks that if she stands there long enough, she'll hear him squeaking like she does in her dreams. And then she'll have to shuffle her exhausted self over, lift him out of the crib in the corner, and hold him to her chest. Like it's a responsibility and not a privilege.

Being home alone takes some getting used to.

* * *

"Tell Shepherd I appreciate her taking the interns for their skills lab this morning. I don't know what in god's name possessed her to volunteer, but I'm glad she did."

Owen's finished having lunch with Bailey and has just gotten up to clear his tray when she says it.

He pauses, frowns, and sits back down.

"She did what?"

* * *

"Dr. Shepard? Are canine brains very similar to human brains?"

"Tumor's a tumor, Jacobs. Now, shut up and hand me a ten blade."

* * *

She takes time off.

Amelia Shepherd. Takes time off. Voluntarily.

And for the duration of that time off, the house is closed off to visitors. Including Owen.

He's respectful, of course. As respectful as he can make himself be, that is. He calls and texts but doesn't show up at the house, unannounced or otherwise. However much he may want to.

Until he gets the call.

Nothing's wrong, she tells him. But she'd like him to come over. Whenever he can.

He drops the ER on Kepner and an army of interns and drives straight to the house, where he rings the doorbell because now there's a doorbell to ring.

Amelia answers the door, grinning wider than he's ever seen her grin.

"Welcome," she says, practically bubbling over with excitement.

Rita's paws hit his chest and nearly knock him onto his ass on the newly paved porch.

"Woah!" he laughs, scrubbing his hands over her head, careful not to disturb the now mostly healed incision. "Hi, lady…hi…"

"Let him in, Rita," Amelia orders. "Let's give him the tour."

They take a lap around the first floor. The kitchen and living room are sequestered behind a closed door that separates them from the foyer and the adjoining room that's described, concerningly, as, "where I'll keep the fellows if I decide to take some." A giant desk dominates one corner of the foyer, presumably from which she'll supervise her hostages.

Upstairs is mostly empty bedrooms. (It's a big house for one person.) One set aside for her brother's kids. Master bedroom and bath. A smaller room off the master bedroom that Amelia skims over on the tour and Owen knows better than to ask about.

And then there's the attic.

"This is…the neuro suite," he says, stunned.

Amelia shrugs. "Pretty much."

And then there's this rush of warmth in his chest that he can only describe as affection. "Of course it is," he says, awed. Then, laughing and surprising her by yanking her into a hug, "Of course it is!"

They end up on the back porch, curled up on the brand new patio furniture with Rita chewing her squeaky femur at their feet.

Amelia takes a long, deep breath. "So…"

"So?" he murmurs into her hair.

"I don't want you to move in."

"What?"

Owen shifts out from under her, trying to get a better look at her face. "Amelia, I didn't mean to- if I did something that made you think…I wasn't trying to-"

"No, no," she corrects hurriedly. "Shhh, shhhh, listen! That's not..."

Groaning, she blows some hair out of her eyes and finishes, somewhat awkwardly, "It's a big yard."

Owen stills. "It is a big yard."

"And not a very nice one, since I haven't figured out how to make the grass grow in those ugly brown patches, but-"

"Amelia."

"It's big enough for a trailer," she says finally. "If you want."

Oh. He grins and shifts so she can tuck herself under his arm.

"So."

"So?" Amelia asks, suspicious.

"Aren't there some kind of zoning laws about putting…what did you call it? My 'piece of junk on wheels' so close to a real live castle?"

Scowling, she nudges her toe into Rita's side. "Sic 'em, girl. Go on. Get him. Make him get out of our castle."

Rita pauses, femur still in her mouth, and stares mournfully up at him, really looking at him for the first time since she's been able to see before sliding back to rest her head on Amelia's knee.

"What did I tell you, huh?" he asks softly, scratching her behind the ear. Amelia isn't paying any attention to them, instead shifting to lean against the opposite arm of the wicker couch and jab her toes into his thigh. Her head hangs over the arm and he wonders why she doesn't move so her neck isn't uncomfortably bent until he realizes she's peering up at the house, surveying her castle, somehow both content and awestruck.

Rita whines at the loss when he stops petting her, and Owen jumps, suddenly aware he's been consumed by watching her.

"You learn to love it," he finishes quietly, unable to tear his eyes away from Amelia.

* * *

Later, he's headed out to his trailer for the night, having stayed over way later than he usually would because it's only a short walk to the corner of the fenced in lot that he's claimed as his own.

He looks over his shoulder back at the house and stops when he sees Amelia framed in the window of the small spare room attached to hers. She's staring in his direction but over his head, and Rita has her front paws up on the window sill next to her.

Unable to help it, he stops in his tracks and spins to walk the rest of the way backwards, looking up at the window.

"You learn to love it," he repeats, smiling.


End file.
